


The Assembly of Ladies; or why there was no masque at the Tournament of Harrenhal

by La Reine Noire (lareinenoire)



Series: Within the Hollow Crown [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Multi, POV Character of Color, POV Female Character, POV Minor Character, Pre-Canon, References to Underage Sex, Sibling Incest, Tournaments, Tourney at Harrenhal, Women Being Awesome, Year of the False Spring, bad life choices, community: asoiaf_exchange, creepy pseudo-medieval monarchs, foreshadowing ahoy, unreliable narrators
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-22
Updated: 2013-06-22
Packaged: 2017-12-15 19:24:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 19,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/853156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lareinenoire/pseuds/La%20Reine%20Noire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They say the War of the Usurper began on the final day of Lord Whent's tournament at the castle of Harrenhal, but as with all histories, the truth is far more complicated.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mystery_knight](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=mystery_knight).



> Many, many thanks to my wonderful beta-readers rosamund, angevin2, winterofourdiscontent, and fallingtowers; I could not have done it without you.
> 
> One of the things I love most about _A Song of Ice and Fire_ is that the history of Westeros is as richly textured as any "real" history--which, in practice, means that none of the accounts of the tourney at Harrenhal, and the subsequent events culminating in the downfall of the Targaryens, actually match up (including the most recent "official" version in _The World of Ice and Fire_ , which is constantly lampshaded as being pro-Baratheon and pro-Lannister). This story attempts to explain what happened there, and since history really is nothing more than facts strung together by speculation, I fear there is a great deal of speculation at work here. But it is a version of what might have happened.
> 
> There are more detailed notes at the end.
> 
>  
> 
> **[Ed. Autumn 2014] This fic has been revised to be canon-compliant for _The World of Ice and Fire_. Lucky for me, it didn't take much! For details, [see this Tumblr post](http://poorshadowspaintedqueens.tumblr.com/post/101467044769/the-world-of-ice-and-fire-or-hey-look-how-much-of-my). If you're curious to read the original version of this story (though, as I said, the changes are really minor), it's still [archived on Livejournal](http://asoiaf-exchange.livejournal.com/80038.html), although you'll need to join the asoiaf_exchange community in order to access it.**

_Imaginatively [a woman] is of the highest importance; practically she is completely insignificant. She pervades poetry from cover to cover; she is all but absent from history. She dominates the lives of kings and conquerors in fiction; in fact she was the slave of any boy whose parents forced a ring upon her finger. Some of the most inspired words, some of the most profound thoughts in literature fall from her lips; in real life she could hardly read, could scarcely spell, and was the property of her husband_.

– Virginia Woolf, _A Room of One's Own_ , ch. 3

 

 

Olenna Tyrell was no stranger to masques. Had not she and Joanna Lannister staged a triumphant version of the Knight of Tears for Olenna's son's wedding at Highgarden? Unorthodox subject matter, to be sure, but the king was in attendance and, dubious marital practices aside, it was one of the few recorded tourneys in which a Targaryen participated and did not mysteriously die. Young Prince Rhaegar had adored it while his father watched through narrowed, suspicious eyes. Not terribly different from the situation as it now stood.

 

Of course, Joanna had died soon afterward giving birth to the monster of Casterly Rock--may she rest in the Mother's grace--and Olenna was forced to admit that the other woman's steadying presence and quiet authority would have come in very useful in these trying circumstances.

 

"Ladies!" she pronounced, using the voice Mace had long ago termed the great horn of Highgarden. Five pairs of eyes--from Lannister green to Dayne violet to Stark grey--snapped to attention. "It is customary for a tournament to be accompanied by a masque, but it seems Lady Whent has been remiss in her planning. It is for us, therefore, to remedy this lack."

 

Already, the Stark girl was fidgeting with a loose thread in her skirt. No lady of Highgarden would have dreamed of behaving as she did in company, but Lyanna Stark had an odd sort of grace about her when someone was foolish enough to shove a tourney sword into her hand, and everyone knew northerners were funny in the head anyway. Exactly what the young lord of Storm's End saw in her was a mystery to most of the Reach, but Olenna suspected the answer was simple: Lyanna was the only woman in Westeros who showed no interest whatsoever in Robert Baratheon.

 

But that was neither here nor there. Olenna sighed. "We have few resources and even less time. Had I known of the situation, I would have had supplies brought from Highgarden, but nothing to be done for it now. So, first, I would like an inventory. Gowns, jewels, cloaks, everything you have with you. Steal from your brothers or husbands--they'll forgive you."

 

Tywin Lannister's daughter let out a cough that Olenna suspected was disguised laughter. She had a twin brother who was recently knighted by the Sword of the Morning himself, if Olenna remembered rightly (and Olenna always remembered rightly, whether or not she admitted it). No small feat for a young man of fifteen. The daughter was Cersei, as blooming a summer beauty as Olenna had never been, though perhaps a trifle young to be crowned the queen of this tournament.

 

Not to mention her father was out of favour, and the king himself would be attending. Olenna narrowed her eyes at Cersei Lannister. "Lady Cersei, have you any suggestions?"

 

Cersei dipped her head so her face was obscured by the fall of her hair--as bright as beaten gold. "Only that if we are in need of knights in the masque, my lady, my brother Jaime will not object to my borrowing from him when he arrives."

 

"Indeed." Olenna nodded. "A useful contribution."

 

"And my brothers," interjected Lyanna Stark, the accents of Winterfell falling oddly on Olenna's southron-trained ears. "All three of them are here in Harrenhal."

 

"I certainly do not intend for you all to masquerade as knights," she sniffed. "That would be ridiculous. But I shall take your suggestions under advisement. We may borrow your brothers as well, should they be willing. Every good masque includes a comely gentleman or three." At the strangled gasp from Lyanna, Olenna rolled her eyes. "I trust they teach young men how to dance at Winterfell, Lady Lyanna?"

 

"I...not very well, my lady," the girl admitted, her cheeks turning pink. "Nor ladies, I fear."

 

"Well, you shall do your best nonetheless." If they ran short on men, Lyanna would make a tolerable knight. No doubt the girl would prefer it thus, but if she was to be Robert Baratheon's lady, this would be her world, not the mud of the practice yard.

 

"What is the masque, Lady Olenna?" asked Cersei with a smile as sweet and as untrustworthy as Olenna herself might once have worn. "Have you chosen a subject?"

 

"I have several possibilities in mind, although we must tread carefully. They say the king is in a bad temper." She was one of the few who had not been shocked to learn that King Aerys, who had not left the confines of the Red Keep in the better part of five years, would be amongst Lord and Lady Whent's guests for their grand tournament. But then, spies had always been a good investment and Highgarden had plenty of money.

 

"Father says he's never anything but." The other ladies gasped and tittered at Cersei's boldness but Olenna merely studied her, brows raised. "It's true."

 

"Truth-telling will win you no favours here, Lady Cersei. Unless you wish your brother to end his promising career on the point of a Kingsguard's blade, I suggest you curb your tongue." The girl's smile faded to a sullen pout. Olenna remembered then what else she had heard about Cersei Lannister--that her father had sought Prince Rhaegar himself as a son-in-law, to no avail. Olenna could have told Lord Tywin a great deal about the dangers of expecting anything from prospective Targaryen marriage alliances, but he hadn't had the wit to ask her. Nor had the king softened the blow, insisting that his son would marry a lady whose bloodlines met his exacting standards. To the surprise of nearly all the lords of the Reach, Prince Rhaegar had defied his father and married Princess Elia of Dorne, with whom he held court within the ancient walls of Dragonstone.

 

No doubt keeping this in mind and noting too the sickliness of the Dornish princess--who had produced a daughter but not yet the longed-for heir--Lord Tywin had given his unmarried daughter her own position in the Tower of the Hand. Olenna suspected, too, that the Hand of the King paid little mind to what Cersei did and did not observe. Men really were fools sometimes. More gently, she added, "You must be careful, child. One never knows who might be listening."

 

At that point, a gust of wind slithered through the half-melted walls, and the Wailing Tower made good on its name. Even Lyanna Stark jumped a little, though she ducked her head in embarrassment as soon as she realised Olenna had seen her.

 

"Well, then." Olenna clapped her hands. "Bring me an inventory, ladies, and we shall see if we can't make a silk purse from this sow's ear. Someone must keep the men civilised, after all."


	2. Chapter 2

Civilization, Lyanna Stark believed, was overrated, particularly if masques were involved. A stupider waste of time, she'd never seen. Not that she would ever say that to the Queen of Thorns. She had that much sense, at least.

 

A swish of her wooden sword decapitated several nearby daisies. "It's." Three more. "Not." A clutch of poppies. " _Fair_." The last victim was a lonely wild rose and Lyanna felt a pang of regret. Picking up the half-ruined flower, she tucked it into her hair.

 

"Life isn't fair, sister," Brandon reminded her as he slipped his arm through hers. "The sooner you accept that, the happier you'll be."

 

"But I'm better than Benjen. I even beat Ned, fair and square. The ladies of Mormont ride into battle. Why should not I?"

 

"Because you are a Stark of Winterfell--"

 

"--and I must marry for the betterment of our house and the future of the Iron Throne of Westeros, and do _stop_ , Brandon, before I fall asleep on my feet." Lyanna rolled her eyes. "Do you think Benjen and I could switch places?"

 

Brandon's laughter echoed through the silent trees. "I'd love to hear you try to convince him."

 

"Of course, Her Prickliness would notice. She notices everything. I'd swear to the old gods and the new that she has eyes in the back of her head."

 

"Terrifying woman, yes. Besides, you look nothing like Benjen. You're a confirmed beauty now, though I can't for the life of me see it," Brandon said, swinging her round to look at him. "You know Robert Baratheon is madly in love with you."

 

Lyanna lowered her eyes to the sword still clutched in her right hand. "I do."

 

"It is a grand match. You would be lady of Storm's End and the finest lands in Westeros." The seriousness dropped from his voice as he hugged her. "Maybe the first to ride in tourneys, eh? It is not so far from Highgarden, and Robert is rich enough, he'd never notice if you bought yourself a suit of armour."

 

She swatted him on the shoulder. "Don't be an idiot, Brandon. That isn't how it is in the south. Southron ladies wear silks and laugh at jesters and flirt. It's never real for them." She'd lingered on the fringes of the ladies' circle, watching as Cersei Lannister held court, though the golden-haired girl was younger than herself. "Robert sees what he wants to see."

 

"All men do that, and women too. I pray Cat doesn't see my bad parts till after we wed. Then she can't change her mind."

 

"It is a pity she isn't here. I do so long to meet her." That much was certainly true. Brandon had met them at the Trident full of raptures about a red-haired girl in Riverrun with a tongue sharp as Lyanna's best blade. "I trust she isn't foolish enough to be jealous of her sister."

 

"Jealous of Lysa? Why in all the seven hells would Cat be jealous of _Lysa_?"

 

"How am I to know when I've met neither sister and _you_ refuse to tell me anything about her?" snapped Lyanna, though she could not quite hide her smile. "But even _I_ know that Lord Tully is well on his way to making his other daughter the future lady of Casterly Rock."

 

"And you think Cat would be jealous?" repeated Brandon, his smile disappearing in the blink of an eye. "Because of Jaime Lannister?" He thrust aside her arm. "I thought you were better than that, Lyanna."

 

"Now, wait just one moment, Brandon Stark," she demanded. When he finally stopped, about ten paces from her, she sighed. "It was a jest, nothing more. But while we're on the subject, let me remind you that though I know little of what is in her head, I know far more than I should ever wish to about Catelyn Tully's bosom."

 

Though he did not turn, she could see the backs of his ears turn bright red.

 

"And since I am a woman and I possess a pair of eyes, I am more than permitted to inflict upon you the wonders of Jaime Lannister's arse."

 

"And _I_ ," Brandon finally said, his cheeks redder than the poppy petals beneath their feet, "am going to forget I ever heard those words come out of my baby sister's mouth."

 

Lyanna linked her arm through his once again. "Come, then. Why so touchy? What happened at Riverrun?"

 

"Nothing of import," he snapped. Lyanna bit her tongue and started to silently count to ten. At seven, Brandon sighed. "Very well. There was a...I suppose he wasn't a man, really. A boy. Hoster Tully was fostering him, and he took it into his head that he and Cat..." Though he laughed, the sound was oddly strained. "Catelyn Tully of Riverrun marry some nobody from the Fingers? It's beyond nonsense."

 

They'd come to a halt at the edge of the woods. Before them, swallowing the horizon like a great black beast, was Harrenhal. Lyanna looked at her brother. "Go on, then. A nobody boy from the Fingers in love with a river lord's daughter? This begins to sound like a masque."

 

"Petyr was his name. She kept calling to him, begging him to reconsider. She cared for him--that much is certain. As for him..." The line of his mouth grew hard, just as their father's did when he was crossed. "He wanted her. Every time he thought nobody was looking, he'd stare at her, as though she were some sort of treasure he could carry away if someone would just give him the chance. I wasn't about to let him, and he made it easy for me. He challenged me, Lyanna. He couldn't have been older than fifteen, and about your size, and he challenged me to a duel for Catelyn Tully."

 

It went without saying that Brandon would have won. Her brother was twenty, a trained fighter, and a favourite in the jousts to come. It would have been as easy as crushing an insect. She would have thought it harder for Brandon to kill another man.

 

"I didn't kill him, if that's what you're wondering." Lyanna swallowed her sigh of relief. "Cat begged for his life and I gave it to her. I didn't trust him, Lyanna."

 

"And what about your _Cat_ , Brandon? Do you trust her?"

 

Brandon looked at her, finally, his eyes grey and cold as the stones of Winterfell. "I don't trust her to see him for what he is. A snake in the grass. She's well rid of him."

 

"I would be curious to know _her_ thoughts on the subject," Lyanna said. "You tell me you hope that Cat hasn't seen your bad qualities when she's watched you beat a fourteen-year-old boy near unto death. A boy she cared for, no less. Can you hear yourself, Brandon Stark?"

 

"Aye, Lyanna, I can. And I regret that I didn't kill him when I had the chance." With that, Brandon swept away, his cloak billowing angrily behind him. Lyanna watched until he disappeared beyond the curve of the road that led to Harrenhal's gates. With a sigh, she hoisted the tourney sword over her shoulder and started back toward the castle.

 

The main courtyard, like everything else in Harrenhal, was massive and partly derelict. The castle's ruined walls dwarfed those of Winterfell, reaching like broken fingers into the glorious blue sky. Spirits sinking as she pondered the one-hour rehearsal that stretched between her and the promise of the evening's feast, she took a sharp turn in the direction of the kitchens. Lyanna had always been adept at coaxing an extra pastry or crust of bread when it suited her. Surely the kitchens at Harrenhal couldn't be terribly different from those at Winterfell.

 

As she rounded the corner, she heard the sounds of a scuffle. Adjusting the grip on the tourney sword's handle, Lyanna crept forward and silently cursed her skirts as they puddled between her feet.

 

Three burly squires, no older than the boy from the Fingers Brandon had spoken of, surrounded a slender, prone form. Without thinking, she slammed the sword against the wall with a resounding _crack_. The three assailants froze long enough for their quarry to slip free and tuck himself into the far corner.

 

Faced with a girl, the three squires could only gape at her. With a roar that would have done Brandon proud, she charged them, swinging the tourney sword at the knees of the largest squire. Quicker than he looked, he jumped aside, but the blow still knocked him off-balance into the churned mud of the courtyard.

 

With a spin that owed as much to her hated dancing lessons as it did to the practice field, Lyanna planted herself between the young man in the corner and the two remaining squires. A quick glance back identified the badge on his cloak--a long-tailed lizard on green--and Lyanna narrowed her eyes at their assailants.

 

"That's my father's man you're kicking." She shoved her cloak back to reveal the wolf sigil brooch at her throat. "Do it again and you'll answer to the Starks of Winterfell."

 

"Do the Starks of Winterfell all fight like girls?" demanded the squire on the left. She noted the badge of the twin towers of Frey on his tunic.

 

Lyanna smiled, wishing her sword were real. "Care to find out?"

 

He opened his mouth to reply, but instead let out a high-pitched wail as the point of Lyanna's sword rammed into his belly, shoving him onto his back. Straddling him--in which her skirts proved surprisingly useful--the wooden blade pressed against his throat, Lyanna hissed, "Be glad I didn't aim lower."

 

The last remaining squire was backing away slowly. "Aye, there's a good lad," she said with a grin. "I'll remember you. All of you."

 

She rose and turned back to the crannogman. "You're very far from the Neck. Come, let's find friendlier company." She would clean him up in Brandon's tent and her brothers' squires would take care of him. In the meantime, she had a masque to prepare for.

 

But the young man was watching her, his eyes moss-green and full of secrets. "I saw you, my lady, in my dream. You wore a crown, but all the roses had died and there was nothing left but thorns." He gripped her hands. "You must beware, my lady. Weep for the silver prince, but do not follow him."

 

"I don't understand," Lyanna murmured, raising him to his feet. "I'm just here with my brothers, ser, and I don't know anything about a prince." Well, excepting the Prince of Dragonstone, who had not yet arrived from the capital. All the ladies-in-waiting sighed for him, save the Dornish lady from Starfall, who it was said was Princess Elia's friend. "I don't even know him. I've never seen him before."

 

There was a strange sadness in the crannogman's eyes. "You will know him, my lady, all too well."

 

Lyanna shivered. "You mustn't say such things. My old Nan used to tell me about green men and green dreams, but they're nothing but stories. Now, come with me. Let's find you something to wear."

 

Much to her relief, he said nothing more of dreams or visions, and Lyanna soon forgot he'd said anything at all.


	3. Chapter 3

"We're to do a masque of Jenny of Oldstones and the Prince of Dragonflies." Ashara Dayne glanced briefly over her shoulder before turning back to the window. Far below, Lyanna Stark, a blue rose gleaming in her dark hair, disappeared from view beyond a wall. "I don't suppose you would be at all inclined to lend me your sword. I might need it."

 

For the first time since she'd walked into his chamber, Arthur looked up from where the leather strap hissed satisfyingly against Dawn's near-edgeless blade. His eyes were the colour of the bruises beneath them; he had travelled all night as the advance guard of the royal party while Ashara had arrived at a more reasonable hour in the afternoon. "Are you sure that's wise, Ash? The king won't be pleased."

 

"It is by order of the prince and my lady the princess. I had to tell the Queen of Thorns myself." She shook her head. "I don't like it. Any of it."

 

"Nor do I, but as you have your orders, I have mine." Arthur set down the sword as though it were a sleeping babe. "My orders are to protect the king. Above all."

 

Ashara raised an eyebrow. "I rather think Prince Rhaegar will be in greater need of protection if the king should grow displeased." She crossed the room to where a decanter stood on a table, filled with wine from the grapes grown just north of Starfall, and poured herself a generous serving. "Who told him there was somewhat afoot in Harrenhal, Arthur?"

 

"The eunuch. Who else?" The king trusted no-one these days save his new Lysene spymaster--an irony lost on nobody but himself. That somewhat _was_ afoot was almost beside the point. Lord and Lady Whent had announced a tourney at Harrenhal that would dwarf all tourneys that had come before--the perfect excuse for those who favoured the prince and princess to escape to a place where the eunuch had fewer eyes. One would not be so foolish as to hope he had none.

 

"He pours his little birdsongs into the king's ears and the king dances like a puppet in a mummer's show," she said bitterly. "And Prince Rhaegar only makes it easier."

 

As far as the Dornish party--and, really, any member of the prince's court at Dragonstone--was concerned, he was the only thing standing between King Aerys and the services of the Faceless Men. Since the disaster at Duskendale had driven the king into virtual imprisonment in the Red Keep, whispers had surfaced that it was time for Prince Rhaegar to seize his advantage and take the Iron Throne for himself, but the prince made one response. _There can be only one king on the Iron Throne, and that king is my father until the gods see fit to call him away_. The Targaryens of the past did not shrink from shedding one another's blood as it pleased them, but the once-flourishing family had been whittled down to King Aerys and his two sons, and the tragedy of Summerhall--where kings, princes, and great warriors had all been consumed in flame--loomed large over them, especially over the prince of Dragonstone.

 

Arthur made no response, his eyes on Dawn's gleaming surface. Ashara took a sip of wine and began to pace back and forth across the rushes.

 

"He fears what the king is becoming. Has become, if we're honest with ourselves." At his continued silence, Ashara crossed the room to his side and looked down at him. "My lady fears for her children, Arthur, born and unborn alike. Can you give me any reassurances for her?"

 

"Even the king would not harm them," said Arthur, looking up at her. "They are his heirs, after all."

 

"So is Prince Rhaegar."

 

Arthur closed his eyes. "Please, Ash. I have no answers for you. I serve the king. It is my first and my only charge. I do not--I _cannot_ \--question him." Not even when the whole kingdom questioned him. The vows of the Kingsguard were not made lightly and her brother was the greatest of their number.

 

Ashara drained the last of her wine and placed her hand on Arthur's shoulder. "If you speak to Prince Rhaegar, I will counsel my lady. We will find a different subject for the masque. Not that I relish explaining this to the Queen of Thorns."

 

They shared a shudder at that. Relations between Highgarden and Sunspear had been remarkably benign of late, but the old rivalries ran deep and the Daynes were border lords who would never forget that the men--and women--of the Reach could not be trusted. As Ashara stepped back, Arthur caught her hand. "How is your lady, Ash?"

 

"Better," Ashara admitted, "now that spring is here." It had been high autumn when Prince Rhaegar and Princess Elia were married in the Great Sept of Baelor, but the ensuing winter had taken its toll and her daughter's birth the previous year left her bedridden for five moon's turns. Even before they left Dragonstone, however, Aegon's Garden finally bloomed and the princess seemed to grow stronger as the days lengthened. "Of course, I can't speak for her health in this awful place. How can the Whents stand to live here?"

 

"Harrenhal may be a ruin, but it is a powerful ruin and the petty lords will fight over it until the very stones crumble." Arthur rose to his feet and hoisted the sheathed Dawn onto his back. "They will arrive soon. We had best prepare."

 

The royal party arrived as the sun dipped below the hills to the west, and it was clear from the moment Ashara set eyes on them that the king and his son were still quarrelling.

 

They had planned to sail directly from Dragonstone around Cracklaw Point to Maidenpool, but the seas had been choppier than usual and, more importantly, word came from Lord Tywin Lannister that the king intended to make for Harrenhal. Pretending it had been their intention all along, the prince and princess and the entire court departed south from Dragonstone to the capital, intending to meet the king and queen, and journey north together along the Kingsroad.

 

Instead the king forbade the queen from leaving the Red Keep and looked so distastefully upon his granddaughter Princess Rhaenys that the prince and princess decided to leave her in the capital with the queen and Prince Viserys. Lord Tywin, too, had stayed behind and sent his daughter in his stead. Now, after what seemed like an age on the road, Prince Rhaegar and his father were barely speaking to one another.

 

It was left to the princess to greet Lord and Lady Whent as though nothing were amiss, her chin held high and her smile visibly exhausted.

 

Reminded of his wife's condition, Prince Rhaegar was all solicitude, leading Elia to her chambers forthwith and thus freeing Lord and Lady Whent to greet the king and distract him. Ashara fell into step behind her lady just in time to hear the prince murmur, "If you aren't well, my lady, there's no need to tire yourself at the feast."

 

Elia shot Ashara a look over her husband's shoulder. "I think a bath and a short rest will set me right. Will you see to it, Ashara?"

 

"Of course, my lady." Bobbing a quick curtsey, she darted down the nearest corridor in the direction of the kitchens. After ordering a copper tub and hot water to be delivered to Princess Elia's chambers, she was on her way back when she nearly collided with a young man in grey.

 

"My lady! I beg your pardon!" His accent was the same as Lyanna Stark's, and quite to Ashara's amusement, they also had the same nose. His manners, however, were far better. No doubt he had been fostered elsewhere. "How very clumsy of me."

 

"You must have been in a hurry to reach the kitchens," she observed. "I'm afraid I've forgotten how many sons Lord Stark has. Which one are you?"

 

He seemed unduly fascinated by the ground. "N---Eddard. Second son."

 

"Your sister calls you Ned." His startled eyes met hers, wide and grey like his sister's. "It suits you." Taking pity on him, she started toward the door. "I'll see you at the feast, Ned Stark."

 

She was still laughing when she arrived in the princess' chambers. Elia reclined on a pile of pillows, the prince beside her. Their hands--hers the colour of the Dornish sands and his pale as weirwood--were joined over her belly and he bent forward to kiss her cheek before rising.

 

"I'll make your apologies to Lady Olenna and offer myself in your place."

 

"A trade she will no doubt welcome, my lord," Elia said, laughing, "since you are a prize for any masque, let alone one masterminded by the Queen of Thorns."

 

"Not solely by the Queen of Thorns," he reminded her with a grin. The prince's smiles had the beauty of a lightning storm and her lady had been smitten on sight. As he passed Ashara, he paused and inclined his head. "Lady Ashara."

 

"My lord prince," she replied, sinking into a curtsey. When the door closed behind him, she took his place beside Princess Elia on the bed. "How do you fare, my lady?"

 

The smile Elia had worn in her husband's presence had dissolved, and she squeezed Ashara's hand. "I didn't want to worry him. Nothing a good night's sleep won't cure. I may not last beyond the first course of the feast, however, so you must take my place and dance at least once with Ser Barristan."

 

"Barristan Selmy?" Ashara laughed. "I had no idea he could dance. I assumed all the Kingsguard were as bad as Arthur."

 

"Not at all. He enjoys it, but I doubt he has the chance very often."

 

"No, indeed." There was precious little hope of dancing in the king's presence. "Doesn't the king hate masques too?"

 

"Of course he does," Elia said. "He hates everything that doesn't burn for his amusement."

 

Smothering her laughter, Ashara glanced over her shoulder but none of the servants were close enough to have heard. "We may not be in King's Landing, my lady, but it might still not be wise to speak too freely."

 

"Am I never to speak freely again, Ashara?" Elia shook her head. "Don't answer that. I won't either. We know those are words that cannot be unsaid."

 

 _When the king dies_. Only then would her lady be truly free. But it was treason even to speak of a king's death, and they were neither of them foolish enough to stumble into that trap. They had become friends when Elia and her brother Oberyn stopped in Starfall on a journey that, Elia had confided in her then, would end at Casterly Rock with a betrothal agreement binding her and Oberyn to the twin children of Tywin and Joanna Lannister. Instead, the Lady Joanna died in childbirth and Lord Tywin declared that his daughter would wed Prince Rhaegar and no other. He may have been out of his mind with grief, but it was an insult that Sunspear could not countenance.

 

So Elia married Prince Rhaegar and became queen in all but name over the prince's court in Dragonstone. If the gods willed her to live so long--and gave her husband the sense to take what was his before it was too late--she would become Queen of the Seven Kingdoms. Just in case, however, Cersei Lannister remained in the Red Keep, waiting upon neither queen but holding her own court in the Tower of the Hand since her father showed no inclination to remarry. She was one of the most beautiful girls Ashara had ever seen, but beauty of that sort had never swayed Prince Rhaegar. If it had, Ashara suspected he would have taken Lord Tywin's offer, his father be damned.

 

"The prince is to join us in the masque, then?"

 

"Not join, my dear. Who do you think he'll play?"

 

Ashara buried her face in her hands. "And you didn't stop him?"

 

"How was I to stop him? You know my husband when he gets an idea in his head. Almost as bad as his father." With a guilty shrug, she sketched a Rhoynish sign against evil in the air. "I take it back. Nowhere near as bad as his father, thank the gods."

 

"We should pray a bit harder, and thank the gods tenfold that Lord Tywin convinced the king to leave Lord Rossart in the capital," muttered Ashara. At the princess' horrified stare, she added, "You were the one who said anything about fire, not I. And everyone knows how the story of the Prince of Dragonflies ends."

 

"He wouldn't." Even as Elia spoke the words, she winced, her dark eyes suddenly miles away. She better than anyone knew Prince Rhaegar's obsession with the blackened ruins of Summerhall. "Not his own son."

 

"Not yet, perhaps. Not until he knows there's an heir." Ashara placed her other hand over Elia's, her gesture mirroring the prince's. "It won't come to that, my lady. The Kingsguard wouldn't let him," she added, wishing that were in fact true.

 

"Some of the Kingsguard, at least. My uncle and your brother." Ashara did not have the heart to correct her. "Ser Barristan, perhaps."

 

"I should hope so. The king would make a dreadful dancing partner." At the image that conjured, she could not help but giggle. "But, come, my lady. Let us talk of happier things. Such as what I should wear tonight, if I'm to charm Ser Barristan into dancing with me."

 

In the end, she wore a gown as blue as the sea below the Palestone Sword and the king kept to his rooms. Perhaps owing to this, Princess Elia--radiant in black and gold--did not retire until well into the fifth course and even managed one dance with her younger brother who had come all the way from Sunspear to see her.

 

Or so Prince Oberyn remarked to Ashara when he claimed her from Ser Barristan's arm. "You've been ignoring me."

 

"And why shouldn't I ignore you, my lord?" she asked. "You said you came all the way from Sunspear to see your sister, not me." No, indeed, for she sent detailed communiqués from Dragonstone to Sunspear every week that she knew Oberyn read. He and Elia had been born only a year apart and had spent most of their childhood ruling the Water Gardens as ruthlessly and efficiently as the Targaryens ruled the Seven Kingdoms. As far as Ashara knew, it was only the combined efforts of the ruling Princess of Dorne and her heir Prince Doran that had kept Oberyn in Sunspear when news of Elia's illness reached him, and she did not doubt that his was the loudest voice in favour of placing Prince Rhaegar on the throne. Not that any red-blooded Dornishman or woman would argue against their princess becoming queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

 

"I rely on you to tell me the truth." His hands clasped her waist and he lifted her, skirts swirling. "The king travels all the way to Harrenhal, leaves Maegor's Holdfast for the first time since he destroyed House Darklyn, yet nobody sees him. He eats alone, and makes the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard taste his food. And he's arguing with his son." Oberyn's movements did have a certain serpentine grace to them; whoever had coined the Red Viper as his title chose wisely. "Ashara, is she in danger?"

 

She sighed, spinning beneath his arm. "So long as Prince Rhaegar lives, and this birth is easier than the last, I don't believe her to be in danger. But neither of those I can predict, my lord. And Princess Elia will not leave her husband. She understands her duty. As I do."

 

"Dorne would keep her safe," he muttered.

 

"If it were up to you, Dorne would start a war. How safe do you think she would be then?" The steps of the dance carried her away from him and into an intricate pattern with the lady beside her, one of the Lannister cousins, she vaguely remembered. When she rejoined Oberyn, she hissed, "Leave it be. This is a time to tread carefully, my lord, not to start fires you cannot put out."

 

"The only one starting fires is the king, if what you write is true."

 

"I always tell Prince Doran and your lady mother the truth, my lord." Taking advantage of his closeness as their arms twined in an intricate pattern over their heads, she whispered, "Elia is my dearest friend and I will die myself before I see any harm come to her. Do you believe me or no?"

 

Oberyn nodded, his expression mutinous.

 

"Then you must trust me, my lord. See to your own affairs." With a suggestive smile, she added, "Find yourself a wife, for that matter."

 

"I don't suppose you would be agreeable?" Ashara laughed loudly enough that several of the guests glanced her way, and Prince Oberyn smiled wryly. "You find a prince of Dorne ridiculous, Lady Ashara?"

 

"My dear Prince Oberyn, flattered as I am that you think of me beyond a single night's conquest, I fear I must demand fidelity of my husband and that is not a talent of yours."

 

He held out his hands, palm-upward. "What can I do? We are what we are, lady."

 

"Then perhaps you should claim the younger son's prerogative and never marry," she suggested. "Then you would be free to practice your many skills on the willing ladies of Dorne without reprisal." She had better sense than to involve herself with Oberyn Martell; she knew too many ladies who had done so to their detriment. He at least had a reputation for being good to his mistresses and bastards alike--enough that the smallfolk had begun to refer to the Red Viper and his army of sand snakes.

 

"You would displease my lady mother terribly, and Elia too, if they heard you say that."

 

"I think only of the happiness of your prospective wife." The music came to a close and Ashara offered the prince a deep curtsey before taking his hand. "You must trust me, my lord. Your sister does."

 

He muttered something she could not quite hear before replying, "It is not you, my lady, but the king I do not trust. You will send me word if he puts a toe out of line."

 

"I will, my lord. You have my word of honour."

 

He bowed over her hand. "Then I shall have to be satisfied with that. Unless..." he trailed off with a grin, retreating quickly as Ashara raised her hand in a mock threat. "Very well, very well. You can't blame a man for trying, my lady of Starfall."

 

"I never blame men for trying. Only when we disagree on whether or not he succeeded." With that, she spun on her heel and made her way back to the dais.

 

Prince Rhaegar had played his harp for the assembled crowd earlier in the evening, and it should have surprised no one that he sang of Summerhall and grief of Jenny of Oldstones for her dead Prince of Dragonflies. Ashara even saw Lady Olenna scribbling down lines that caught her attention, no doubt meaning to add them into the masque. Claiming a glass of Arbor gold from a passing servant, she perched on the edge of the high table and considered the room.

 

She would ask Princess Elia if she had noticed anything odd during the prince's song. Ashara had been too busy wincing at the words and eyeing the guests she knew had once been closest to the king. The Lannisters and their bannermen. The Tyrells and the lords of the Reach. The Starks she paid no mind; Winterfell to her seemed as distant as Old Valyria and the northern lords had the sense to stay as far away from court as they could. Most of the guests, however, had drunk enough of Lord and Lady Whent's wine that they barely noticed the words, applauding the prince as mightily as any famed musician from the Free Cities.

 

That much, at least, was a blessing. And by now the dancing had surely distracted them from even that memory. She herself was quickly losing track of her long string of partners.

 

"You seem far too serious for a feast, my lady," a man's voice said near her in a thick Northern burr. "If I may be so bold."

 

Ashara glanced up from her wine. The knight, clad in Stark colours, was her age or perhaps a bit younger, some childish roundness still in his cheeks. He was flushed with wine, his grey eyes alive with laughter, and his hair pretty as a girl's. Ashara refused to indulge her desire to twist one of those dark curls around her finger and steal a kiss. He was a northern boy, after all; he might faint from shock. "They say the lords of the north must needs be bold to spare us all from the depths of winter. Are those not the Stark words?"

 

"Spare _me_ from my family's words," he muttered, rolling his eyes. "I must confess, my lady, that I am here on a mission."

 

"A mission?" Ashara drained her wine and set the glass on the table behind her. "Pray tell."

 

"I'm afraid you seem to have stunned my younger brother." He made an expansive gesture toward the table where the Starks and their allies gathered. There, beside the laughing figure of Robert Baratheon of Storm's End, was the young man she had seen earlier. "He's been staring at you all night and it was all I could do to draw out of him that he'd encountered you earlier this evening and thought you were the fairest lady he'd ever seen."

 

"That must make you Lord Rickard's heir." Ashara held out her hand. "I am Ashara Dayne and I serve Princess Elia."

 

"And the Sword of the Morning..."

 

"My elder brother," she confirmed, hiding her smile. So many young men, it seemed, blushed like maids for Arthur, though he wouldn't have noticed even if he weren't sworn to the Kingsguard. "Should I be insulted that the young men flock to him rather than me?"

 

The young lord Stark kissed her hand. "They would flock to you, lady, if you would have them."

 

"But not you among them, surely. Or are the rumours of your betrothal false?" She could not recall who the lady was, only that she was not in attendance.

 

"Nay, I am betrothed to Lady Catelyn Tully of Riverrun, that much is true." There was a trace of defiance beneath the words that gave Ashara pause. Something more lay beneath the words; that much she could tell. "But that is of no consequence tonight. I am here to beg a dance from you on my brother's behalf."

 

"Will he not ask me himself?" As she looked across the room at Ned Stark once more, he met her eyes and his cheeks grew red. "I am not so frightening, surely."

 

"If Lord Robert were to know, poor Ned would never hear the end of it. Will you be my brother's saviour, my lady Ashara?"

 

"Every woman longs to save a man," she finally said, giving him her hand. "Lead on, my lord. Although, do tell me your name that I may remember you to my brother."

 

"I would prefer to be remembered to you, lady. Brandon Stark, at your service."

 

Ashara smiled at him and saw with satisfaction that a blush had begun to creep up his neck. "A builder like your namesake?"

 

"I fear not, my lady. Just the future lord of Winterfell."

 

"Just the future lord of Winterfell," she mimicked, the northern consonants tripping her tongue. "I would speak more with you, Lord Brandon."

 

"And I with you."

 

"Some other night, perhaps," she said, curtsying. Then, dropping his arm, she advanced the final few steps to the contingent flying the blue and white eagle of the Eyrie. Brandon Stark's brother was seated beside the black-haired giant of Storm's End, one of the favourites of this tournament, and his eyes widened in shock at the sight of her. "I told you I would find you, Ned Stark," said Ashara, biting back a smile.

 

Robert Baratheon slapped him on the back. "Dance with her, you fool, before she changes her mind. Or, better yet," he turned to Ashara, blue eyes dancing with drunken laughter, "I'll go in his stead."

 

"Nay, Lord Robert, the invitation has yet to be refused." At which point, Ned Stark grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the centre of the hall, Robert's laughter echoing behind them. Northmen were turning out to be far less boring than she had suspected.

 

At the last minute, she saw, from the corner of her eye, a slender young man in grey clothing clearly intended for someone much larger. Pinned at his throat was a badge of two lizards--one Ashara did not recognise. Her frown must have caught Ned Stark's attention, for he made a half-gesture toward the young man in the corner.

 

"Howland Reed, my lady, of Greywater Watch. The crannogmen do not normally venture this far south, but he said he'd had a dream of this tournament." As if suddenly realising what he'd said, he stared down at the embroidered hem of her skirts. "Which sounds very foolish, I imagine..."

 

"Not at all, my lord," Ashara replied, only half in bemusement. The dragons may have died long ago, but magic had not wholly died with them, and it was said the crannogmen of the Neck could trace their blood back to the First Men. Ashara met Howland Reed's eyes--the green of moss and swamp trees--and it seemed for a half-second that she stood at the window of the Palestone Sword, gazing down at the ocean infinitely far below.

 

"Lady Ashara?" Ned's face swam back into her vision. "Are you all right?"

 

She tossed her head and smiled. "Of course. I was just miles away for a moment. By all means, let us dance and think no more of it."

 

When she glanced back over her shoulder, the crannogman had vanished.


	4. Chapter 4

The princess awakened to the sound of silver harpstrings. She turned on her side and watched as her husband's fingers coaxed impossibly beautiful sounds from the instrument--the melody, she recalled from the previous night. Rhaegar was a study in twilight, dark eyelashes concealing his remarkable eyes from view as his hair fell like moonlight over his black doublet. He always wore black, the Targaryen dragon picked out on his breast in thread the colour of the finest rubies.

 

Last night, he had looked particularly striking beneath the massive roof of Harrenhal's great throne room. Elia, who had heard 'The Lament of Jenny of Oldstones' from its first ungainly chords to its final rehearsal and even contributed several choice phrases, instead did what she did best and observed the observers.

 

Whispers fluttered through the Tyrell contingent, while Cersei Lannister watched the prince with eyes hungry as a cat's for cream. There were days when Elia wondered if the Lannister beauty would have been a better wife for Rhaegar, one who could have given him his three perfect children, the heads of the Targaryen dragon. But what had held her eye was the Stark girl, tears standing in her grey eyes as she tried not to catch her brothers' attention.

 

It was a game Elia knew well, with two brothers of her own, and the Lady Lyanna had three. When Rhaegar finished and the crowd roared its approval, Elia giggled as Lyanna upended a glass of red wine onto the head of the boy seated beside her. Rhaegar glanced back at her. "I trust you didn't find the song amusing."

 

"Hardly, my dear. It's simply that wolves aren't supposed to cry when they hear songs, and sometimes one must punish one's brothers." Rhaegar's only brother was far too young for him to understand any such logic. Leaning forward, she kissed her husband on the forehead. "It sounded wonderful, and I am very pleased that your father was not here."

 

"You don't honestly think I would have sung it if he were?"

 

"You are occasionally rash, husband, but I think singing of Summerhall before your father smacks less of rashness than of idiocy. And, besides," she added, "you made Lyanna Stark cry."

 

"Lyanna Stark?" Elia pointed to the grey-swathed table, where a boy dripping red wine was flinging drops at his shrieking sister. "Goodness."

 

Elia had buried her laughter in Rhaegar's velvet-covered shoulder and thought nothing more of Lyanna Stark. Now, she shifted her pillow and the movement must have caught his eye, for he looked up and smiled. "I hope you both slept well."

 

"He misliked that dreadful wheelhouse," Elia said with a grimace. "I wish I had been strong enough to ride, my lord." She had been strong enough, once, but the winter chill and her pregnancy taken their toll. Lowering her eyes, she murmured, "Your son deserves better."

 

"Nay, Elia, don't." After setting his harp carefully on the window seat, Rhaegar knelt beside the bed and raised Elia's hand to his lips. "He could not ask for a sweeter and more gracious mother. A true child of summer, as he should be, to drive away the darkness for good."

 

Elia prayed that her smile did not look as painful as it felt, as it always felt when Rhaegar spoke like this. She would not call them spells--no, she could not equate Rhaegar with his father, not in a thousand years--but she did not know what name to give those weeks her husband sometimes spent in the ruins of Summerhall--his closest friends accompanied him to the borders, but the ruins were Rhaegar's alone. She had only passed those naked, staring walls from a distance, for it was said to be a haunted place, whose air still smoked from fires that had lit up the skies more than a lifetime ago. Rhaegar was born as the first rooms caught fire on the far side of the palace and it was only the timely intervention of the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard, Ser Duncan the Tall, that he and his mother had been saved.

 

It was the greatest fire the land had seen since the death of Balerion the Black Dread.

 

The prince of the prophecy was destined to be born amidst salt and smoke, his birth heralded by a bleeding star in the sky. Once Rhaegar had thought himself that prince--it was, after all, why his grandsire had arranged his parents' marriage, with the knowledge that the promised saviour of the world would be of his blood. And Rhaegar had been born when the smoke from Summerhall darkened the horizon and the tears of all the realm had spilled pale and salty for the death of kings.

 

Then the stars had wept over Dragonstone and the babe in her womb had quickened. With that, Rhaegar had decided that the prophesied prince must be their son, and if this knowledge disappointed him, Elia had yet to find out.

 

For Elia's part, she was content to stay away from prophecies. "I would be happy, my lord, if our son were to grow up strong and wise and succeed you on the Iron Throne."

 

She could see the disappointment in his face. To him, prophecies and dreams of eternal fame were as natural as breathing, but his blood was that of the dragon and of Old Valyria, and the Dornish lived for this world, not for eternity. She raised their conjoined hands to her lips. "You will not ride in the melee, I hope."

 

Rhaegar shook his head. "I leave that to Robert Baratheon and his like." Elia agreed wholeheartedly--the melee was far too dangerous for the heir to the throne under any circumstances, let alone the present ones.

 

As Rhaegar's wife, and owing to the queen's absence, Elia would have been expected to attend most if not all of the jousts, but she pleaded her condition such that Ashara took her place after she congratulated the lord of Storm's End on winning the melee. That evening, Ashara gave her a long list of sartorial grievances she had witnessed by ladies of King's Landing, including a particularly unfortunate headdress that caught the attention of a passing hawk, and Elia laughed so hard that she even fancied the baby gave a kick beneath her hand, though it was far too early. At Ashara's urging, she even attended the rather haphazard rehearsal for the masque and watched as her husband fought a mock duel with Jon Connington while Cersei Lannister looked on as Jenny of Oldstones. One of his earlier opponents, vanquished after a short but vigorous bout early in the career of the Prince of Dragonflies, turned out to be Lyanna Stark, conscripted when there were found to be insufficient men with time to spare.

 

At the night's feasting, Ashara left the royal table to join the Stark contingent and became the subject of much whispering. Elia excused herself soon thereafter and was awakened well after dark by her husband slipping into bed much later with some vague remark about Ashara sleeping with wolves both literally and metaphorically.

 

"For shame, Rhaegar," she murmured. "No metaphors after midnight."

 

"Are you sure? I thought you liked gossip." His mouth tickled the back of her neck and she turned to face him in the dark.

 

Reaching up, Elia ran her fingertips across her husband's face, lingering on his mouth. "Gossip, yes. Metaphors, no. Which of the Stark boys was it?"

 

"The eldest, I think." He slipped his arm around her and she rested her head against his shoulder. "Yes. Brandon Stark is his name."

 

Elia vaguely recalled something about one of the Stark boys being engaged to a Tully of Riverrun, but could not remember which it was. Presumably not Brandon if he was dallying with her lady-in-waiting. Northmen were funny about those things, in her experience. "Ashara and Brandon Stark," she said aloud, before reaching over to the chest beside the bed. Fumbling for the tinderbox and candle, she coaxed the tiny flame to life. Its light played over Rhaegar's face, flushed from drink, and she felt a brief quiver of resentment at the child whose presence prevented her from pouncing on her husband then and there--and, of course, the guilt and fearful contrition that followed. She would not go down in history as the Dornish hussy who killed the heir to the throne because she could not restrain herself. Queen Elia the Lusty, not at all dignified. And she was a model of restraint compared to Oberyn.

 

Sometimes Elia wondered why it was that the maesters refused to admit women to the Citadel, and it occurred to her now that the maesters wrote the histories of the kingdom. _Perhaps, when I am queen, I shall force the Citadel to admit women_.

 

Beside her, Rhaegar cleared his throat, and Elia glanced up at him with a sheepish smile. "I was woolgathering, yes. Pardon me, my dear. What were you saying?"

 

"I said that I couldn't see Ashara as Lady of Winterfell. She would turn back at the Twins and never leave Dorne again."

 

"Even _I_ won't go to the Twins, my lord," she pointed out, settling back against the pillows. "Meeting Sir Walder Frey in the Red Keep was bad enough. I pity the Lady Wynafrei, although at least she's only married to his son."

 

"I could point out that for all of Ser Walder's worse qualities, he at least does not believe his destiny is to transform into a dragon," said Rhaegar, the words half-muffled in the pillow he had tucked beneath his chin. "I'm so sorry, Elia."

 

"It isn't _your_ fault," protested Elia. "We cannot help who our parents are, Rhaegar. And you are not Aerys. You will never be him." Even as she said it, a draught caught the candle and the shadows suddenly sliced across Rhaegar's face in a parody of his father's sneer. She took his hand and held it tight. "I would not have married you otherwise."

 

"Ah, yes, the sovereignty of the Dornishwoman, treasured above all things."

 

"It is no trifle, my lord, to be chosen by a princess of Dorne," she said, unable to quite hide her smile. "And when our son is born, perhaps we'll travel there for a time."

 

Rhaegar's fingers, which had been tracing rather delightful patterns on her palm, stilled at her words. "My father would deem it treason."

 

He had once been adamant in his refusal to force his father's abdication--he wouldn't even countenance mention of the king's death, let alone conspire to hasten it--but it was growing harder and harder to hide the king's behaviour. The truth would out sooner or later, but the Targaryens had ever been a superstitious family and to take on kinslaying and kingslaying in one act was not a decision any son should need to make. So Elia had let him take his time, but descriptions of the king's appearance the previous night would have spread across castle and tourney camp alike by now. He looked every inch a madman.

 

Elia still remembered the night it had become clear to her, during one of the feasts celebrating her marriage to Rhaegar--she saw it in her nightmares sometimes, the smile on King Aerys' face, his stillness amidst the chaos of a mummer's show gone horribly wrong. They had all been warned beforehand not to allow any open flames into the throne room, but the king's pyromancer Lord Rossart had charged past the guards before they were able to stop him, and the mummers' costumes, all but painted onto their skin, went up in flames. The king watched them burn, and smiled.

 

She shuddered at the memory and her fingers tightened on his. "Even King Aerys cannot watch every door in the Red Keep. A ship could take us from Dragonstone to Sunspear in days. My brothers will help us. Oberyn would spirit us from Harrenhal itself if I asked it of him, though that seems a trifle extreme." And impossible with Rhaenys in the Red Keep. She kept her eyes on him, though he stared into the darkness, at what she could not know. "Rhaegar, will you at least consider it? For our children's sake?"

 

"No harm will come to them, Elia. Do you honestly think--?"

 

"He is your father and you see him with a son's eyes. But surely even you can see the whole realm lives in fear of him. Nobody can predict who he will turn on next. First it was House Darklyn and House Hollard. Now, all his master of spies need do is point. What if it were Lord Tywin? Or the queen? Or you?" Elia hesitated for a moment before speaking aloud the fear that had lurked in the darkest corners of her mind. "How much would our lives be worth, Rhaegar, if you were dead?"

 

The king had another son, after all, one still young enough not to question his father.

 

Rhaegar pulled himself upright, to his knees. Looking Elia in the face, he raised their clasped hands to his mouth. "I promise you that I will consider it, and you may tell your brothers as much. But not a word beyond Doran and Oberyn. I will tell Griff myself."

 

"Not the Daynes?" Ser Arthur had been Rhaegar's friend as long as his sister had been Elia's; no doubt his word had swayed Rhaegar in his decision to seek Elia's hand in marriage. "The vows of the Kingsguard--"

 

"I would never doubt Arthur's loyalty, not for an instant," Rhaegar said, though he was staring now at the candle beyond Elia's shoulder. "Now, if my father were to order him to slay me in his presence, I confess, Elia, that I cannot say what he would do...but it would never come to that. My father may be...unbalanced at times, but he is no fool."

 

"Ashara thinks we should call off the masque altogether so as not to offend your father." Elia still did not know whether or not she agreed, but the masque had been Rhaegar's idea in the first place, before they'd learned that the king would be in attendance. "Of course, your father hasn't left his chambers since we arrived."

 

"I'm not frightened of him. If he finds treason in a masque, let him. He can look a fool in front of all the great lords and ladies of Westeros. Lord Tywin already knows it well enough." Rhaegar let go of her hands and pressed his fingers to his forehead. "He will never give up the throne. Even if he knew he ought to, which he doesn't, and the gods help the man who tries to tell him."

 

"Lord Tywin?" It was the Hand's duty to always keep the best interests of the realm at heart. Elia never felt at ease around Lord Tywin Lannister, her memories of their first meeting far too vivid for her comfort. _I fear we cannot entertain you as planned. You see, my wife is dead_. There had been nothing behind the words, but it was the kind of emptiness Elia imagined lay far beyond the Wall, so cold that it burned. Word of Lady Joanna's death and the birth of a monstrous baby boy had spread as far as Oldtown, but still Princess Artemisia had insisted upon travelling to Casterly Rock to pay her respects to Lady Joanna's grieving husband. What they found instead was deathly silence and gloom and the echo of a lonely infant boy who hardly looked like a monster at all.

 

"Lord Tywin is not a patient man," Rhaegar said after a moment's thought. "If he should tell my father the truth, we all may regret the consequences." He flopped back down onto the bed with a sigh. "Will you be in the stands tomorrow, do you think?"

 

"I plan to be. Oberyn jousts tomorrow, and you and Ser Arthur the day after, so I thought this would be the best of all days to rest," she said, adjusting the heavy bedspread. Rhaegar only needed them on the coldest of winter nights--the blood of the dragon, she supposed. "I hear all of the bride's brothers were unhorsed today and she is Queen of Love and Beauty no longer."

 

"The Whents were never known for their prowess in the lists, although Ser Oswell did well enough in the mêlée. Nor are the Freys, although one of them was a champion today. Robert Baratheon and Jaime Lannister drew the opening lot on the fourth day. That is the match I want to see," he admitted with a sheepish grin. "Since I will take on the winner, I have a stake in it."

 

"Naturally." Elia leant close and kissed her husband on the lips. "Sleep well, then, my lord. We will watch the jousts tomorrow. Who knows? Your future Kingsguard may come from this crop of young men."

 

Her own words continued to echo as Elia watched the jousts the next day. There were five champions as the sun started its slow descent toward the hills. And it was then that the mystery knight rode into the lists. On his shield was a tree whose bark was twisted into a laughing face. Beside her, Rhaegar leant forward in sudden interest.

 

"Is it a sigil you recognise, my lord?" Elia asked.

 

Rhaegar shook his head. "I've never seen it before, but it looks like one of those heart trees they worship in the north. Presumptuous, to wear a god as a sigil."

 

Elia briefly sketched a sign against evil where Rhaegar could not see it. She did not believe, as such, but old habits died hard.

 

"Sister, what think you of this development?" Oberyn's voice made her heart jump a little and she glared at him as he dropped into the chair Ashara had vacated earlier that afternoon. "If you're wondering what became of the lady of Starfall..."

 

"Ashara's business is her own and she will tell me in her own time," Elia said. "As for what I think, I see a mystery knight, and I will be curious to see who he challenges."

 

"A tiny knight, for a start, far too small for that horse. Fine horse, though. One of the northern breeds." Oberyn could read horseflesh the way maesters read books. He rested his chin on one hand and held the other out to Elia, who took it gladly. "How do you, sister?"

 

"Well, my dear. My son is making his presence known. And," she added under her breath after a quick glance round, "I have spoken to the prince."

 

"What says he?"

 

"He will take it under advisement. You cannot expect more, Oberyn. He cannot openly side against the king without starting a war." Raising her voice, she gestured toward the knight, who had apparently made three challenges. "Who has he challenged, Oberyn? Tell me."

 

Without batting an eye, he rose from his seat and leant over the railing. After a moment, he called back to her, "Knights from Houses Haigh, Blount, and Frey."

 

Turning from where he had been deep in conversation with Jon Connington, Rhaegar frowned. "An odd combination. One never knows with these mystery knights, though. I still remember the stories of Aegon the Unlikely and Ser Duncan the Tall. Or Ser Barristan, for that matter. Arthur never bothered with it."

 

Elia laughed. "Of course not. He won't be parted from Dawn and nobody with half their wits could fail to recognise that sword."

 

"I do not think our knight of the tree is quite of their calibre," Oberyn remarked with a smirk. "The smiling tree? No, too close to the Smiling Knight for anybody's comfort. And, speaking of the Smiling Knight, where in the seven hells is Ser Jaime Lannister?"

 

"The laughing tree, perhaps," Rhaegar murmured, clearly lost in thoughts. "Will that do, Prince Oberyn?"

 

Oberyn eyed her husband for a moment before nodding. "I daresay it will. The Knight of the Laughing Tree. A long name for such a short knight."

 

"As for Ser Jaime," said Elia, "he arrives today from Casterly Rock. It seems his invitation was delayed." At least that was what his sister claimed, but there was far too much triumph in Cersei Lannister's smile for such a simple explanation. For a moment she studied the Knight of the Laughing Tree, but the small figure on the massive horse could not possibly be Ser Jaime Lannister. Her eyes met Rhaegar's briefly and she wondered if he had been thinking the same thing.

 

All the men were soon intent on the fighting, and Elia took the opportunity to lean back against the cushioned chair and watch the crowd. The first day or two of any great tourney involved mostly the hedge knights, with the great lords and champions decided by lots and spread over the latter days. It was no surprise, therefore, that the stands were crowded with houses and colours from the Riverlands, and the parties from further afield left their places empty.

 

The mystery knight handily defeated his first two challengers, each after an engagement of some length, mostly on horseback. Jon Connington pronounced him an indifferent jouster at best while Oberyn’s eyes were wholly focused on the knight’s horse and what must have been minute movements of his knees controlling it. _A magnificent horseman, though, and that can win a joust_. His eyes met Rhaegar’s and her husband nodded, half-distracted himself from the conversation. By the time the knight unhorsed his third opponent, it was clear his strength was flagging. Elia found herself fascinated in spite of her utter lack of interest in jousting and any of its attendant spectacles.

 

There was just something odd about the knight and Elia could not quite pin down what it was. Something in his movements; an odd sort of grace that--strange as the thought was--owed as much to dancing as it did to sparring. It was proving a source of immense frustration for Oberyn, whose commentary distracted her from the niggling and persistent suspicion that she'd seen the knight before.

 

"Oh, for all our sakes, just finish him," Oberyn muttered as the knights circled one another for what seemed like the hundredth time. "This is a tournament, not a Highgarden masque."

 

Elia froze. Below them, as the crowd roared its approval, the Knight of the Laughing Tree lunged forward and brought his sword down with a flourish to within a hairsbreadth of the Frey knight's throat. No, not his sword. _Hers_.

 

The Knight of the Laughing Tree was Lyanna Stark.

 

Elia would have sworn it on her honour. She silently cursed Ashara's absence; the other girl could have confirmed her suspicions in a second. Beside her, Oberyn continued to mutter imprecations, and on her other side, Rhaegar was watching the knight with great interest.

 

Leaning toward her husband, Elia placed her hand on his arm. "What think you of our mystery challenger?"

 

Rhaegar held up his hand and Elia looked down to see the mystery knight, still ahorse, addressing the three defeated champions. The wind had picked up, snatching the words, but one of the heralds scurried to Rhaegar's side soon after the knight had finished speaking.

 

"The knight will give them back their arms and horses if they lesson their squires in honour?" Rhaegar sounded bemused. "A stranger mystery knight I don't think I've seen. Who are these dishonourable squires, I wonder?"

 

The three knights retreated from the field in the direction of their tents, presumably to chastise their squires. The mystery knight made a quick circuit of the lists before melting into the crowd of waiting squires. Elia shook her head. "I suppose there is something to be said for a mystery knight who will remain a mystery."

 

But there was a noise growing on the far side of the lists nearest the castle. Rhaegar's fingers tightened on the arms of his chair as the white shapes of the Kingsguard hove into view. In their midst, astride a black horse, was the gaunt figure of King Aerys Targaryen, second of his name, head bent beneath the weight of the crown. He peered at the crowd through suspiciously narrowed eyes, his gaze lingering on Rhaegar and Elia, or so it seemed.

 

Lord and Lady Whent had scrambled down from the opposite stand, all but tripping over their finery as they prostrated themselves before the king. Rhaegar rose to his feet and held out his arm to Elia, his face as blank as a king's effigy. Sighing under her breath, she adjusted the red and gold veils of her headdress and let her husband lead her from the stands.

 

In the light of day, the king looked even worse than he had two nights earlier. His robes were of black velvet trimmed in red, as fine as any in King's Landing, but nothing could disguise the tangles in his filthy beard or the clawlike nails. His skin was pale as milk from lack of sunlight, and he squinted fiercely beneath the afternoon sun.

 

"Lord Whent. Lady Whent. How gracious you are to invite us to celebrate your daughter's wedding." His voice was hoarse from disuse, rasping like chains on cold stone. "We beg your pardon for our absence these past days. The journey was...taxing."

 

By the time he finished, Rhaegar and Elia had reached the group and made their obeisance, Elia staring fixedly at the daisies trampled beneath the king's feet. There could be no hiding it now. The Riverlands would be full of the story by nightfall, tales of the king's face travelling with messengers and hedge knights and by raven to the great castles of Highgarden and Casterly Rock. She had to fight not to look at Rhaegar.

 

"Rise." The king's voice was chillier than the Wall. "We would join you, our son, to see the last of the jousting."

 

"I fear it has already concluded, Your Grace, but you may greet the champions," Rhaegar said, slipping his arm through his father's with accustomed grace. Elia dropped back and Lord Whent stopped gaping long enough to take her arm. He was visibly shaking.

 

"You did well, my lord," Elia murmured with what she hoped was reassurance. She resolved to press Rhaegar further. She might even seek Jon Connington's help. Though he cared not at all for her, he would throw himself on a sword for Rhaegar.

 

It might be his most useful characteristic.

 

"You are sure, my lady?" Lord Whent turned to her, his eyes wide.

 

 _Gods above_ , Elia thought in horror, _it's worse than I thought_. "Certain, my lord. Please, you must not trouble yourself. The Kingsguard will see to His Grace. You have your daughter and Lord Frey, and I'm sure that's more than enough."

 

He left her at the royal stands, where the king had taken the throne Rhaegar had been careful to leave empty no matter how tempting the prospect. The five champions, including the mystery knight, came to a halt in the middle of the field, and Elia smiled as the mystery knight was introduced using the title Rhaegar had coined.

 

Though the others removed their helmets, the Knight of the Laughing Tree merely bowed and shook his head.

 

"Why won't he show his face?" the king demanded from the shadows behind them. Elia looked at Rhaegar, who knelt beside his father and spoke low and quick. "I don't care, Rhaegar. We wish to see his face."

 

"Father, please, let it be. You'll see his face if he wins again." She closed her eyes at the pleading in Rhaegar's voice. "Just enjoy the tournament."

 

"I don't trust men who hide their faces," the king hissed. But he sat back in his throne and motioned for Rhaegar to return to his seat. Rhaegar nodded to the herald and, below in the field, the knights dispersed.

 

Later, Elia found Rhaegar in his favoured perch on the window seat. The harp lay in his lap, his fingers listlessly plucking at the strings. "You did the right thing, my lord," she said, placing one hand on his shoulder. He reached up and covered her fingers with his.

 

"I could see his hand on the reins, Elia. He was ready to bolt. I don't know what would have happened." He looked up at her, his expression more fearful than she had ever seen it. "I _saw_ the king, Elia, perhaps for the first time in too long. I forget how the Red Keep changes a person. When he's there, he seems..."

 

"Less mad?" she offered with a weak laugh. "Lord Whent behaved as though the king would order him burnt on the spot. I think I calmed him, though. For what that's worth."

 

So many words trembled on her tongue. _Come to Dorne with me. Take the throne that is yours by right_. It was the right decision, and anyone with wits could see it. Even Rhaegar could see it, the more was the pity, for he remembered his father before his mind turned even as the realm began to forget. The darkest of the seven hells was reserved for traitors and kinslayers, and who knew what the gods' response would be to a king who killed his own father to save a dying kingdom? So she did not speak.

 

"I'd wager we've seen the last of our mystery knight," Rhaegar mused after a few moments of silence. "He won't be coming back, not with my father's eye on him."

 

"Not he," Elia said softly. "She, my lord. Your mystery knight is a woman." At Rhaegar's look of surprise, she shook her head in mock reprimand. "For shame, Rhaegar. You forget the ladies of the north keep to the old ways and go into battle alongside their men."

 

"Not all the ladies of the north," he corrected her. "Only the Mormonts. A tree is a strange disguise for a bear."           

 

"And not only the north, for that matter. Your forget Queen Nymeria. And your own daughter's namesake, for that matter, along with her sister Visenya. Queens fight their own battles, my lord. They leave scars of a different sort." Elia settled onto the window seat and, after setting his harp in its case, Rhaegar slipped his arm around her shoulders. "Lyanna Stark of Winterfell is your mystery knight, my lord. I'd swear it on my honour."

 

"Lyanna Stark? From the masque?" After a few moments, he remarked with a frown, "Of course, she would have lost on the morrow."

 

"I don't think she intended to win the tournament, Rhaegar. She wanted those knights to teach their squires honour. And now, one assumes she has accomplished that."

 

"She's also caught the king's attention, which is reason enough to disappear." He frowned. "He'll be furious when he realises she's gone."

 

"Then you offer to find her. It will endear you to your father and you can conveniently find nothing at all. Our mystery knight was a green man from the Isle of Faces." Turning back to look at him, she wiggled her fingers in front of his face. "Boo!"

 

"And Lyanna Stark's secret is safe." Rhaegar caught her hand and kissed it. "She must be clever, for a ruse like that."

 

"Her brothers could have helped her. That was not a lady's horse." Though she enjoyed riding, she had never had the strength to indulge in the sport as Oberyn did. "And when I find my runaway handmaiden, I shall confirm it with her."

 

"Unless Ashara's turned wolf." He made a face that dissolved Elia into laughter. "What? If we can have green men, why not ladies who transform into wolves? I thought the Starks did that anyway."

 

"No more than Targaryens turn into dragons when vexed," she teased.

 

"Not for lack of trying." He frowned, his eyes focused on the hills visible through the window. "This can't go on, Elia. Something must be done about the king."

 

Elia looked down at the barely visible curve of her belly. "If the babe is a boy--"

 

"Of course he's a boy--"

 

" _If_ ," she repeated firmly. "The king your father knows of the prophecies, does he not? Might he be persuaded to...step down?" The weakness of the plan showed even as she spoke the words aloud. "I don't suppose that would work either."

 

"You might be surprised. Targaryens have a weakness for prophecies." Rhaegar laughed under his breath. "It was a prophecy that saved us from the Doom of Valyria, after all. Daenys the Dreamer, they called her, a maid of fourteen who foresaw the cataclysm twelve years before it occurred. Long enough for her family to tie up its fortunes and make for friendlier shores."

 

His gaze was wandering, as if to the far-off shores of ruined Valyria. Elia was concerned with problems closer to home. "Of course, if we have a girl--"

 

"Elia--"

 

"We must discuss it sooner or later." She turned in his arms and placed her fingers over his mouth. "Rhaegar, by Dornish law, Rhaenys is your heir."

 

"The Iron Throne is not in Dorne, Elia, and, try as I might, I can't control men after I am dead."

 

"But you are not dead, Rhaegar. And," she had to force the words out, "there are other women. You could have a son, even if not with me."

 

He blinked, head tilted like a child asking a question. "A second wife."

 

She had meant a paramour in the Dornish sense--a mistress whose children were raised with hers, as a vast, strong collection of allies who could then marry younger sons and daughters of great houses. But that was not how Targaryens did things. She squirmed a little. "Not quite. I'm too selfish for that, husband."

 

"Elia, the last time a Targaryen took a mistress, it started a war. I won't have my reign remembered for another Blackfyre Rebellion."

 

"No, gods above, nobody wants that." There were a number of Targaryen customs she found questionable, for that matter. She had tried to think as little as possible of the prospect of her children marrying one another. It may have been the custom in Old Valyria, but, as her lady mother was fond of saying, everyone knew what happened to Old Valyria. Surely the king was proof enough.

 

"If it could still be framed as an alliance, perhaps," he said, after a few moments. "None of the great families will simply give away a daughter. They will want something in return."

 

"A child of their blood sharing the Iron Throne. Surely that is reason enough," Elia remarked, wondering, as no doubt Rhaegar was, who might be inclined to take such an offer.

 

"What think you of Cersei Lannister? I haven't spoken two words to her that weren't in verse," he added with a wry grin, "but she is fair to look upon. And it would make Lord Tywin happy."

 

Elia bit her tongue and waited.

 

"Perhaps _too_ happy."

 

"I would agree," she said, turning her head to hide the relief on her face. "She is a beauty, Rhaegar, but to be perfectly frank, I would spend the rest of my days watching my shadow. My no doubt shortened days, if Cersei Lannister has a fraction of her father's wits."

 

"Not Casterly Rock, then." There were no daughters at Storm's End, and those of Highgarden were married already, their own children far too young. Both Tully girls were betrothed, or close to it, and it would do no good to antagonise Tywin Lannister or Rickard Stark. Jon Arryn had yet to father an heir for the Vale, and there was no question of the Freys. "What of Winterfell?"

 

"Lyanna Stark, you mean?" Again, Lyanna Stark. Of course, Elia had been the one to bring her to mind before, so she could hardly blame her husband for recalling. "She's betrothed too, I'm quite certain."

 

"To my cousin of Storm's End."

 

She had forgotten that Robert Baratheon had Targaryen blood, albeit through his grandmother, who had been the youngest daughter of Aegon the Unlikely. He had worn the Stark colours as a favour in the melee, she recalled.

 

"Well," Rhaegar said after a moment, "we needn't think about it now. It won't matter after our son is born."

 

She did not have the heart to argue with him. Gods willing, he was right, but it seemed to her that this game had only just begun.


	5. Chapter 5

As she heard the clarion call of the horns in the distance, Lyanna told herself she did not care. Her plan had been to chastise the squires who had attacked Howland Reed, and so she had. Indeed, she had gone so far as to leave the shield leaning against a tree hard by the crossroads. Let the rest take from that what they would.

 

Lyanna traced the path she and Brandon had taken just a few days before. He was off mooning over the Dornish lady, Ashara Dayne. More than mooning, perhaps, but Brandon's business was his own. If he wished to avenge himself on Catelyn Tully, that particular bad decision was his fault and Lyanna wanted no part of it.

 

Robert had tried to corner her the previous evening, but he had been drunk and stumbling, and Lyanna had sent him off with only half-teasing jibes about the ill luck of maids who happened to marry drunkards. It wasn't that she disliked Robert--quite the contrary, she was fond of him as she was fond of all her brothers' friends, no more, no less. Old Nan had told her that fondness was steadier and lasted longer than mad passion. Looking at Robert and herself, Lyanna did not know what lay in store for them.

 

She even found she appreciated the masque, if only for making it easier to avoid her betrothed. And perhaps it wasn't as tedious as she had originally thought.

 

The final "duel" in the masque, where the Prince of Dragonflies battled an outlaw for the favour of fair Jenny of Oldstones--Cersei Lannister, perfectly cast--was between the Prince of Dragonstone and Ser John Connington of Griffin's Roost, who had been friends and sparring partners since they were boys fostered together. Every time they rehearsed, Lyanna noticed a subtle change in the seamless movements. She found it riveting--enough that it occurred to her to wonder if that might be an interest in common with Robert.

 

Now, however, Robert was preparing to enter the lists, wearing her favour, and she wasn't even in the stands. Ned would be so disappointed in her--it was a pity _he_ couldn't marry Robert, as they would be admirably suited.

 

She felt, rather than heard, when someone stepped onto the path behind her--prickles on her neck and arms like the first hints of a thunderstorm in the air.

 

The Prince of Dragonstone was perhaps several fingers shorter than Brandon and slender as a reed without his black armour. He was watching her, an expression on his face that Lyanna could not identify.

 

"My lord prince," she said with a quick curtsey. "I wouldn't have expected to find you here. Are you not watching the jousts?"

 

"Clearly not," he said dryly. "I was deputed by the king to find a missing champion." He held up the shield she had left by the crossroads. "A little northern knight who is far fiercer than he looks."

 

Lyanna's heart was thudding so loudly she was sure he could hear it. "I haven't seen anyone, my lord."

 

"My wife," he said, as though she hadn't spoken, "tells me she thinks our mystery knight is a woman." At that, the prince advanced toward her, holding out the shield. "That, in fact, it was you."

 

Lyanna could barely breathe. "And if it were?"

 

"Then I tell my royal father that the mystery knight was a green man and your secret is safe. If," he added, "you tell me why you did it."

 

She explained, half-stammering, about Howland Reed and the squires who had attacked him. By the time she finished, she was blushing red as a poppy and staring fixedly at the laughing tree painted on the shield as though it were laughing at her.

 

But the prince only nodded. "Does anyone else know?"

 

"My brother Benjen, but he won't tell. Ned might have guessed, but he wouldn't breathe a word either." Brandon was far too wrapped up in Ashara Dayne to notice or care, but that wasn't any of the prince's business.

 

"And this young man...Reed, you said was his name?"

 

"Oh, he wouldn't say a word," she said fiercely. "You're wrong to say he would."

 

"Did he..." the prince bit his lip and, for a moment, looked as young and uncertain as Lyanna felt, "...did he say anything else?"

 

Lyanna had always been a dreadful liar. She briefly considered it, even with that in mind. What the little crannogman said to her had made no sense then, nor did it now.

 

The silver prince--who else could he be?--was standing before her now, frowning. "Your silence suggests that he did."

 

"He told me to stay away from you," she mumbled. "I don't know why. I don't know _you_." But Howland Reed had said she _would_ know him. "Green dreams are nothing but stories," she finally burst out, tears springing to her eyes for no reason at all.

 

"Not always, my lady Lyanna," said the prince. He let go of the shield and it clattered to the ground. With the sound, followed shortly by the echo of cheers from the lists, a spell seemed to break. The prince glanced back over his shoulder. "Shall I escort you back to the tourney, my lady?"

 

"To the tents, perhaps," she suggested. "I might prefer a quieter entrance."

 

At that, he smiled, and Lyanna wondered if she had imagined the distant crack of thunder. "I can be discreet when I choose, my lady. What should we do with this in the meanwhile?" He gestured to the shield now lying on the path between them.

 

"I rather preferred it at the crossroads," she finally said, raising her eyes to his face. "Would you help me to hang it up, my lord?"

 

In response, he hoisted the shield over his shoulder, doing so with an ease that belied his slender frame. Lyanna rather envied him; by the end of the previous day, her shield arm had ached even more than her sword arm and she suspected a good portion of that was the weight.

 

Once they had secured the shield in the tree, the prince helped her onto the black destrier who had been obediently munching on clover in a nearby field. Climbing on behind her, he said, "It is not that I doubt your abilities, my lady, but Balerion was a gift from my brother-by-marriage and he can be temperamental with strangers."

 

Lyanna laughed. "Only if your concern is for your horse rather than for me, my lord. I am no fragile southron lass."

 

"Clearly not." Responding to some minute shift of the prince's legs, the horse shot forward like an arrow.

 

The ride was over barely after it had begun, or so it seemed to Lyanna. The prince dismounted near the cluster of Stark tents--thankfully empty, save for the occasional servant--but Lyanna lingered, stroking the Dornish beast's mane and toying with the ribbons of Targaryen red plaited through it.

 

Placing her hands on the prince's shoulders, she let him lift her down. "Thank you, my lord, for your silence," she said. "Not all men would be so kind."

 

"Kindness, Lady Lyanna, extends to defending those in need. I will speak well of the Knight of the Laughing Tree, do not fear."

 

She looked up in surprise and met his eyes--a shade of violet dark as twilight. Robert Baratheon was undeniably handsome, but Prince Rhaegar's beauty cut like Valyrian steel. "I wish you good fortune, Lyanna Stark. We will meet again." Before she could respond, he raised her hand to his lips and turned to remount Balerion.

 

"My lord?" she asked, not even thinking. "Why did you ask if Howland Reed had said anything to me?"

 

He did not answer at first, but turned to look at her, the morning sun teasing silver glints in his hair. "It was Howland Reed who told me where to find you. In the same breath, he warned me off, said that you, a lady of winter, would kindle a flame greater than any in all the Seven Kingdoms. A flame bright enough to rewaken the dragons themselves. The song of ice and fire."

 

Lyanna's mouth had gone bone-dry as he spoke. She shook her head. "I don't understand."

 

"Nor do I, my lady. I hope to, someday." Offering one last salute, he cantered back toward the road. Lyanna stared after him for what seemed like an age. Then, shaking her head again--as though premonition could be cast away like cobwebs--she herself started toward where the cheers of the tourney grew louder, welcoming her betrothed to the lists.


	6. Chapter 6

Cersei's impression of the tourney thus far was that it could not hold a candle to the jousts her father had held in Lannisport a few weeks before her eleventh name day. That had been her first sight of the Prince of Dragonstone and the night she had vowed before the Maiden that she would be queen of the Seven Kingdoms.

 

A beaming page had already brought her word of Jaime's arrival--delayed because every village had thronged with smallfolk wishing to see the brilliant young hero who had crippled the fearsome Smiling Knight, thereby allowing the Sword of the Morning to strike the death blow. His first bout--with Robert Baratheon of Storm's End--was not until the next morning, and the jousts had started late after the mystery knight of the previous day failed to appear.

 

Prince Rhaegar had returned after an hour or so, carrying the knight's shield, and announced with a shrug that the mystery knight must have been a green man, for he could find neither hide nor hair of him. Cersei was convinced that he was lying, though she could not think why.

 

She had her favour in her hands already, a red silk scarf with a border of lions picked out in gold. However, a hush fell over the crowd just as the herald opened his mouth to announce the day's champions. She turned toward the royal stands and realised the king had risen to his feet.

 

"What's happening?" Leonella Lefford, daughter of one of her father's bannermen, cried out. Cersei's heart pounded as the six members of the Kingsguard made their way down from the royal pavilion to the grass. Lord Commander Gerold Hightower, the White Bull himself, stepped forth and called out in a voice to rival the herald's, "I call forth Ser Jaime of House Lannister."

 

The crowd was murmuring loudly now. There were traditionally seven knights chosen for the Kingsguard, but Ser Harlan Grandison had died some two months past. Soon afterward, she found a letter in her father's rooms from Lord Hoster Tully of Riverrun, agreeing to come to King's Landing to discuss a betrothal between Jaime and his younger daughter Lysa. When Jaime stopped in the capital on his way to Casterly Rock, she took one of the many secret passages from the Red Keep into the city and found him at an inn near Eel Alley.

 

It was the perfect plan. She would be queen, and Jaime would be a knight of the Kingsguard. She knew well the story of Prince Aemon the Dragonknight and his doomed love for beautiful Queen Naerys, married to his false brother Aegon the Unworthy. He would be with her always, _her_ knight, winning glory in her name.

 

 _If I cannot win it for myself with a sword, he will win it for me_. Jaime would be the jewel of the Kingsguard, perhaps even Lord Commander someday. The songs years later would be of them, the lions of Casterly Rock, as dangerous as they were beautiful.

 

Jaime looked like a king himself in his gold-chased armour, the lion's head helmet tucked beneath his arm. The Lannister arms shone bright on his red cloak as he knelt before the Lord Commander.

 

"Ser Jaime Lannister, in the name of King Aerys of House Targaryen, second of that name since the Conquest, you have been called to a great office. To protect the king on the Iron Throne with your life and serve with all honour in the Kingsguard."

 

The roar of the crowd was deafening. The occasional lady's sob punctuated the cries and whistles, for not since the Sword of the Morning had such a young and handsome knight renounced the love of all ladies to serve his king with all his heart and soul. Cersei knew better. She smiled and pressed her lips to the scarf in her hands. She would find him later tonight and give it to him.

 

Ser Arthur clasped Jaime's hand as the Lord Commander pinned the snowy white cloak onto his shoulders, obscuring the Lannister lion beneath. From the corner of her eye, Cersei could see a page in red and gold livery running at full-tilt toward the rookery. _You are too late, dear Father. He is mine and I am his_.

 

King Aerys watched from above, his smile positively predatory. Why shouldn't he be pleased? Jaime would be the champion of this tourney and many to come. He would bring more glory to the court than had been seen in years.

 

Emerging from the greetings of his new Sworn Brothers, Jaime knelt before the king. Cersei could hardly bear to look on him, instead raising her eyes briefly to the Prince of Dragonstone who waited in the pavilion while his father greeted the newest member of his Kingsguard. Prince Rhaegar was frowning down at his father--perhaps even he hadn't known that Jaime was to be invested today.

 

The king looked down at Jaime, his yellowed teeth visible in a distorted grin. "My dear Ser Jaime, we accept your oath and service. Your first charge will be to ride to King's Landing to guard the queen and Prince Viserys."

 

Jaime blinked up at him, and even from where she stood, Cersei could see the confusion on his face. Something had gone wrong, something... She began to twist the scarf in her hands, trying to catch Jaime's eye.

 

"You heard, Ser Jaime." The smile had vanished from the king's face. "We do not repeat ourselves."

 

"If I may, Your Grace," interposed the Lord Commander, "Ser Jaime is heavily favoured in the lists tomorrow. It would not do for him to leave so suddenly. I'll go in his stead if you feel the queen is unprotected."

 

"No, Lord Commander." King Aerys turned to the stands and Cersei would swear by all the gods that he was looking straight at her. "Let this be a lesson to House Lannister. You are ours. Body and soul. Do not think to rule the dragon anymore."

 

Cersei was standing before she knew it, her cry lost amidst the thousands in the stands. She saw Jaime rise to his feet, staring unseeing at the ground while the prince and Ser Arthur Dayne pleaded in vain with the king. Finally, the king roared for silence and a hush fell over the crowd.

 

"He'll win no glory here," he said, glaring at Jaime. "He's mine now, not Tywin's. He'll serve as I see fit. I am the king. I rule, and he'll obey."

 

Tears pooled in Cersei's eyes. How had it all gone so very wrong?

 

That night, the meadow surrounding Harrenhal was a heaving mass of drunken revelry. Cersei drew her cloak more closely around her and quickened her steps. From somewhere in the Baratheon tents, she heard a booming laugh that could only belong to one man. "A pity the little frogfoot disappeared. And stop being such an old woman, Ned; I'll call him a frogfoot if it pleases me."

 

Cersei vaguely remembered the knight with some sort of tree on his shield, a tiny little thing, and rolled her eyes. A tourney trick, nothing more. Every tourney had a mystery knight. Before she suggested he join the Kingsguard, Jaime had offered to joust in disguise at Harrenhal, Cersei's red-and-gold favour pinned above his heart.

 

And Robert Baratheon was a drunken lecher, to boot. Not like the prince.

 

She came to a halt outside the Lannister tent. The last time she spoke to Jaime was in King's Landing. He'd waited for her in a tiny room in the city and she'd come to him there. _Take the white, my dearest, and be near me always_. Like Queen Naerys and Prince Aemon the Dragonknight. What a cruel joke the king had played.

 

Raising her chin, Cersei thrust aside the folds of the tent and entered.

 

She did not raise her hood until Jaime dismissed his squire. With a catch in her throat, she said, "Nothing will change. I'll see you when I reach King's Landing."

 

"Gods above, Cersei, do you honestly think you're going back to King's Landing?" Jaime turned to face her and his eyes were alive with malice. "What do you think Father will do when he hears the king has stolen his heir?"

 

"Prince Rhaegar--"

 

"Prince Rhaegar is _married_ , sweet sister, and they say his wife carries the prince foretold in an ancient prophecy. Where, pray tell, do you fit in?" Tears sprang to Cersei's eyes and she turned aside, but he grasped her chin. "You thought the king did it for you."

 

"He loved our mother once, Jaime," she whispered. "I thought...he would do it to please me." Her fingers clenched into fists at her sides. "I was a fool. There. Are you satisfied?"

 

"It doesn't matter whether or not I'm satisfied. My path is clear." She followed his gaze to the white cloak thrown hastily over a nearby chair. It seemed to glow from within and Cersei looked away quickly. "To King's Landing go I, to guard the queen and prince. No glory for Ser Jaime Lannister in the greatest tourney in years."

 

"But you were to joust with Robert Baratheon tomorrow," protested Cersei. "They said the Prince of Dragonstone himself will compete. It isn't _fair_." Jaime would have won. He would have worn her favour and he would have won.

 

"Of course it isn't fair. But the king, my master, orders me," Jaime said, flinging one of his gauntlets across the tent for emphasis. "Unless you would have me forsake my new-made vows and run away with you."

 

"Don't be an idiot, Jaime." Shoving the green cloak back from her face, she stormed past him to the chair. The cloak of the Kingsguard was made of the finest wool, not as beautiful as the velvet she wore, but stronger. She longed to shred it beneath her fingernails. "The king would find us. _Father_ would find us."

 

"Not if we ran fast enough. "He caught her hand and drew close to her. "Think of it, Cersei. The runaway cubs of Casterly Rock," he lowered his voice, his other hand snaking round her waist, burning through the fine sleeping shift she wore. "Nobody cares who you are in the Free Cities. Or who you love." Cersei closed her eyes and let him kiss her. Against her neck, he murmured, "I could join the Golden Company and be their greatest swordsman."

 

For one moment, as his lips followed a trail along her collarbone, she wondered if he might be right, if they might have a chance. How many times had traitors to the Iron Throne disappeared into the Free Cities? And Jaime would have no trouble joining any mercenary army, even one as illustrious as the Golden Company. Had he not been knighted by the Sword of the Morning, himself, on the field of battle?

 

But there was no place for Cersei in the Golden Company. She would be left behind once again. Just as quickly as the dream unfolded, she closed the doors upon it. "And what would I do?" she purred, pressing herself against him. Just as quickly, she raised her free hand and slapped him. "Whore for you in a Lysene pleasure house?"

 

Jaime blinked at her, his green eyes startled and hurt. Disentangling himself from her, he stepped back. "Then I made my vows and I will keep them. The Kingsguard may be a game to you, but it never was for me."

 

Of course it was a game to her. The whole world was a game in which her every step and speech was dictated, planned out in advance. And now, her first attempt to make a move of her own had been turned aside. Never again, she vowed. "You have that luxury, Jaime. I fear I do not."

 

"All you wanted was for me to not marry Lysa Tully." Jaime's smile cut like Valyrian steel. "And I'm free, Cersei. I will never marry. Now my watch begins, of a sort."

 

Cersei watched as he retrieved the gauntlet and tossed it onto the table. His squire would polish it and re-arm him the next morning for his journey. Neither to him nor to herself, she said, "I will be queen one day."

 

"Of course you will." There was something in Jaime's voice, an emotion Cersei could not identify. She looked at him, but he was staring at the ground. "That's why you won't run away with me, not ever. Because you would never be a queen. A mercenary's wife, maybe even a lady with a manor and grapevines and children." At that, his eyes met hers and it was as though he wore the mask of courtesy and not she. "But I can never make you a queen, sister."

 

"And if I were queen?" She closed the distance between them but stopped just short of touching him. "You know the stories of Queen Naerys and the Dragonknight."

 

"A happy precedent, sister."

 

"I fear there are few happy precedents for us, Jaime, whatever you may think." Cersei leant forward until her head rested against his chest. "I hate him."

 

"Who? The king?"

 

"The king. Father. The whole bloody lot of them." The tears were scalding in her eyes. "But I can't solve my problems with a sword, Jaime. That's the worst of it."

 

Jaime's arms were around her, his lips warm against her forehead. "You'll be back in court soon enough. Father can't sulk forever. He needs the king, much as he hates to admit it."

 

"None of us needs the king, Jaime. The king is mad as a hornet's nest. Isn't it obvious?" Had they not been within the bounds of the Lannister tents--guarded as well as Casterly Rock, by Lord Tywin's orders--she would not have been so bold. "The prince knows it."

 

"You talk treason, sister. Haven't we just seen what the king will do to satisfy his whims? Please," he whispered, the words muffled against her lips, "wait for me."

 

Cersei looked at him and saw herself looking back. "I will always wait for you, Jaime."

 

She did not linger afterward, creeping from the tent after the nightfires had gone out and the sky on the horizon was just beginning to fade into dawn.

 

Robert Baratheon was predictably furious at being cheated out of his joust with Jaime and had sworn the previous night that he would challenge all comers. Several knights chose to take him up on it, all of whom found themselves roundly defeated, except for Ser Barristan Selmy of the Kingsguard, perhaps to make up for Jaime's absence, though nothing could.

 

Two knights of the Kingsguard advanced to the final group, Ser Barristan and the Sword of the Morning. There was a listlessness about the crowd, as though Jaime's absence had left a hole. That much was at least grimly satisfying. It was only when the prince of Dragonstone entered the lists in the afternoon and defeated Bronze Yohn Royce that cheers and whistles erupted over Harrenhal. The prince entered the lists rarely enough that when he did appear, even golden Jaime Lannister was forgotten, much to Cersei's chagrin.

 

When she returned to her chambers after the jousts, she found a raven from her father ordering her to depart forthwith for Casterly Rock. Cersei crumpled the parchment in her fist and threw it into the fire. The message had still been sealed, so Uncle Kevan had not yet seen it. Then she informed the steward and servants that they would depart as planned the day after the tournament, but that Lord Tywin would be arriving from King's Landing and preparations must be made at the Rock in her absence.

 

Jaime might have been cheated out of his moment of glory in Harrenhal, but damned if Cersei would be. The masque was still planned for the final feast, and would conclude with Jenny of Oldstones stepping forth from the final tableau to place a golden coronet on the head of the tourney's champion. But as Cersei watched from her chair during the rehearsal, she noticed something distinctly odd. At the end of the prince's duel with Lyanna Stark, the northern girl was on the floor, doubled over with laughter. As far as Cersei knew, the two had never spoken a word to one another before. It seemed, too, that as the prince helped her to her feet, their hands clung longer than was needed.

 

It might mean nothing. The prince was married, after all, and in spite of his wife's constant illnesses, he had shown no inclination to pursue other women. There was no reason for him to start now, and certainly not with Lyanna Stark. However, a bit of caution never went amiss.

 

That evening at the feast, Cersei sidled up to the table where Robert Baratheon was celebrating his various small victories with Dornish red. "I am sorry, Ser Robert, on my brother's behalf."

 

"You're very kind, Lady Cersei," he slurred, sloshing wine from his glass, "I'd have beaten him, but, Gods above, it would have been _fun_."

 

"I beg to differ, my lord, but I will always favour my brother," she replied. "May I speak with you for a moment? It's about the Lady Lyanna."

 

"What about Lyanna?" He snapped to attention, as much as any drunk man could, and Cersei had to fight not to laugh aloud. "Magnificent, isn't she?"

 

"She is indeed very fair, my lord," allowed Cersei, trying not to let her resentment show. The northern girl could not compare to her, or even to that Dornish girl in the princess' train, and yet these foolish men were falling over themselves as though they'd never seen a girl who could wield a sword. There had been a time when Cersei was not half-bad with a tourney blade, but then her mother had died and her father had shut her away from Jaime and anything to do with him. That Lord Rickard was more indulgent with his daughter than Lord Tywin had been with his was hardly reason to make a fool of oneself over the former. "She's been very well...admired at this tournament."

 

"Admired? How so?" Robert took another gulp of wine and half-stood, his massive hands clamped on the table for balance. "Speak plainly, Lady Cersei, if you please."

 

"You might ask her, my lord, how she came to know the prince so well." With a secretive smile and a quickly bobbed curtsey, Cersei retreated to watch the fireworks.

 

Robert at least had the sense to corner his betrothed in one of the anterooms leading to the minstrels' gallery, where the noise of the feasting below drowned out the altercation for anyone but those who were intentionally listening. Cersei tucked herself behind one of the massive pillars, having followed Robert's stumbling path from the hall as he pursued the unsuspecting Lyanna.

 

"But I don't understand, Lyanna," he was saying, a distinct whine in his voice that grated on Cersei's nerves. "You've barely spoken to me since we've been here."

 

"I've been busy," Lyanna replied, frustration in her voice. "Why must you make things so difficult, Robert?"

 

"You make time for the prince of Dragonstone, from what I hear." There was an ugly edge to Robert's voice now. "What am I to make of that, eh? You're to be my lady. What is he to you?"

 

For a moment, Lyanna did not speak and Cersei wondered if she had inadvertently stumbled on an affair that had begun far sooner and more secretively than she could have imagined. Lyanna's words, therefore, came as a great relief. "You're talking nonsense, Robert. I can't think where you heard this rumour, and, for that matter, you're hardly one to talk." There was a scuffle of feet on flagstones, and Lyanna's voice was suddenly a great deal closer. Barely trusting herself, Cersei peered round the edge of the pillar.

 

Robert was backing away and Lyanna advancing toward him, her face white and set with rage. "How many bastard children do you have, Robert Baratheon? _How many_?"

 

Cersei watched in some satisfaction as Robert stammered his way through a convoluted explanation while Lyanna watched, distinctly unimpressed. "You mean to say you can't even remember."

 

"I remember," he snapped. "I pay for each and every one of them. I see to their well-being and that they're given a proper start. As one should."

 

"And yet, if I so much as _speak_ to a man, I am to be held in suspicion?" she demanded. "If that is what awaits me in marriage to you, then perhaps you should find yourself a new lady of Storm's End."

 

Turning on her heel, she stormed out of the gallery, leaving Robert sputtering and swearing after her. Cersei smiled to herself. Let Lyanna Stark charm her way out of offending her betrothed. If Lord Stark were half as strict as the Cersei's father, it would be years before she again set eyes on Rhaegar Targaryen.

 

The route to Cersei's chamber took her past the lesser hall where they had been rehearsing for the masque. She would not have stopped, had she not heard the voice from within, a voice that chilled her to the very bone. "You would be the Prince of Dragonflies, my boy? Remember how it ends. It all ends in Summerhall, where the dragons did not wake and the world still burned."

 

Cersei knew she should run, but her feet seemed frozen in place. Eavesdropping was all well and good, but certain things, she already knew, it was better not to have heard. Then, reflected in the cracked windows, she saw flames.

 

The painted wooden chair on which she was to have sat as Jenny of Oldstones was aflame. Burning too were the lances and tourney swords and the ladies' crowns of poppies and the rare winter rose. Three days of feverish work consumed.

 

The room was empty, but she knew there were other doors. Harrenhal was a warren of passages and traps, no less than King's Landing. Swallowing bitter disappointment, Cersei ran to alert the nearest servant that the lesser hall was on fire.

 

There would be other tourneys and other masques.


	7. Chapter 7

Tournaments were foolish things, really. Olenna jolted awake as the crowd around her began to roar its approval. In the lists below, a slender figure in black armour encrusted with rubies held out his hand to the kneeling knight in dirt-encrusted white.

 

"The young dragon conquers the old hero, I see. There's a parable in that." She rose creakily to her feet and applauded with the requisite enthusiasm. "How did it end?" she asked Mace.

 

"Did you fall asleep _again_ , Mother?"

 

"Tournaments bore me. Now tell me what happened."

 

Mace rolled his eyes. "On the sixth lance, Prince Rhaegar caught Ser Barristan in the left shoulder. He didn't fall, but only barely. Two more passed, and finally Prince Rhaegar struck true. It was a hard-won victory. Ser Barristan should be very proud."

 

Ser Barristan looked more distraught than proud, as far as Olenna could see. His eyes kept straying to the royal stands, where beside Princess Elia stood the willow-slim figure of Lady Ashara Dayne. They had danced beautifully together, but Barristan the Bold was the rare sort of Kingsguard knight who took his vows seriously.

 

Prince Rhaegar removed his helm and brought his horse to a halt before the lord of Harrenhal's daughter. From behind her, the new bride revealed a crown of perfect blue winter roses. An unspoken conversation seemed to pass between her and the prince as she placed the crown in his hands. Olenna turned before anyone around her to the section of the stands draped in the grey and white of Winterfell. Certain exchanges had caught her eye during the preparations for the doomed masque, and it seemed Lyanna Stark might become more than a pawn in the marriage game.

 

Lyanna was on her feet now. Her face was pale and rigid, her hands clasped before her. The prince cantered around the border of the lists. The gasps and whispers began when he first rode past the royal stands. It would not be his wife, then, nor the Lady Ashara. Olenna glanced at Barristan Selmy and saw his eyes narrow in disapproval.

 

The red-and-gold Lannister stands were packed with Lord Tywin's bannermen, though the dais contained only his younger brother Lord Kevan, and the Lady Cersei. His former heir would be halfway to King's Landing by now, a sacrifice for the king's pride, and he himself--if Olenna's spies spoke true--was already clearing his apartments in the Tower of the Hand and planning his return to Casterly Rock. If Prince Rhaegar were signalling his allegiance to the erstwhile Hand of the King, crowning Cersei Lannister the Queen of Love and Beauty would be a particularly brash way of doing so. But the prince passed her by and came to a halt in front of Lyanna Stark.

 

For what seemed like a moment frozen in time, the prince gazed down at her. What he said, no one but Lyanna heard, and she held out her hands to take the crown from him and place it on her dark hair.

 

The prince turned to the crowd and smiled. "For the fairest of the northern roses, and in honour of Lord Brandon's betrothal."

 

"Oh, well _done_ ," Olenna murmured. "Take neither side and confound your father."

 

What Prince Rhaegar did not see, but Olenna did, was the young lord of Storm's End fighting hard against the combined strength of Jon Arryn and the Lady Lyanna's brother. Surely within these of all walls, Robert Baratheon could not help but be reminded that one did not awaken the dragon's wrath. But Robert was too young to remember dragons. To all these children of summer, dragons were less real than winter.

 

Somewhere above the whispering crowd, the ghosts of Harrenhal were laughing. The living, it seemed, would never learn.

 

_Finis._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Most of what we know about the tournament at Harrenhal comes from a combination of Eddard Stark (GT), Jaime Lannister (SS/FC), and Barristan Selmy (SS/DD), along with Meera Reed's story of the Knight of the Laughing Tree (SS, Ch. 24) and now the brief (but also notably biased) account from "Maester Yandel" in _The World of Ice and Fire_. Ned, Jaime, and Barristan were all present at the tournament, but their accounts, as I mentioned at the beginning of the story, do not match up. This is not remotely surprising. My main source for the order of events is Meera's story since it is the longest and the most detailed (albeit allegorical and full of weird allusions), but where it conflicts with Barristan and Jaime, I tend to defer to them since they were actual witnesses.
> 
> I have taken the liberty of placing Olenna Tyrell at the tournament for several reasons. We know from Meera's references to the "rose lord" that Mace Tyrell was present, but since Sir Loras was born soon afterward, it seems unlikely that his wife would have travelled the distance from Highgarden to Harrenhal. But mostly Queen of Thorns FTW.
> 
> The accounts are also unclear on whether or not Cersei Lannister was present, and I've decided to take dramatic license so she can be involved. There is an oblique mention of her outshining Lyanna Stark (DD, Epilogue) that, if it refers to a specific event, must be the Harrenhal tourney since as far as we know, that was the first time Lyanna travelled south and/or attended a tournament. The details of Jaime's investiture appear in SS Ch. 44, and several of Aerys' lines are taken verbatim from there.
> 
> The books do not specify which of the two Stark brothers, if either, was the lover of Ashara Dayne. Barristan's account implies that Ashara had an affair during the tourney and became pregnant, but also raises the thorny question of the chronology and duration of Robert's Rebellion that I suspect won't be answered--if ever--until Books 6 and 7 when we presumably find out what actually happened to Lyanna.
> 
> Probably the most drastic interpretive choices I made were those of characterization. Most of the main characters in this story are known only second or third-hand in canon, and primarily through stories. Myths, if you will. I've chosen to take a more benign view of Rhaegar, for instance (although, for a darker interpretation, [remember me in blood](http://archiveofourown.org/works/748093) by belleways is phenomenally well-written), mostly because I want poor Lyanna to have had a bit of happiness before it all goes to hell in a handbasket.
> 
> My interpretation of Rhaegar and Elia's relationship, and her attitude toward his potential infidelity, is rooted in what we've seen so far of Dornish customs and attitudes toward sexuality in particular. Oberyn and Arianne are both given a remarkable degree of freedom, and even if Arianne's is far more circumscribed, it makes sense that Elia would have a similar pragmatism on the subject of her husband taking lovers.
> 
> I've also taken the liberty of delving further into medieval precedent and basing my version of Rhaegar Targaryen on King Richard II (1367-1400). Drawing on what we know of Rhaegar from canon (bookish, thoughtful, occasionally ruthless, obsessed with prophecies), it's not a terrible likeness, particularly if one follows Shakespeare's version of events. I suppose that makes Robert Baratheon the Henry Bolingbroke of this equation, which doesn't quite fit as well, but nobody said ASOIAF mapped even imperfectly onto any particular historical period (Starks and Lannisters notwithstanding). The scene with the mummers that Elia describes is based on the _bal des ardents_ of 1392 (incidentally, has offered to write that story and I'm holding her to it). I couldn't, however, leave without Aerys setting something on fire, so that answers the question of the title.
> 
> It is surprisingly difficult to find happy songs or legends based on the ones we actually hear about in the book. Prince Aemon the Dragonknight supposedly pined after Queen Naerys for his entire life and may or may not have been the father of her child. The love story of Jenny of Oldstones and the Prince of Dragonflies also ended in tragedy, and TWOIAF has confirmed that the songs _were_ based on Prince Duncan Targaryen, son of Aegon V, who died with his father and namesake at Summerhall.
> 
> As I said in the beginning, this is all speculation. I've followed the hints from canon as best I can and extrapolated based on events that might have inspired them. The political backdrop of the story is one of my more fanciful speculations, but the more I think about it, the more it makes sense. I haven't yet decided if I'm going to write out the rest, but I hope the hints are enough to spawn theories of their own. The more the merrier until we all get jossed, right?


End file.
